


Tarmac

by wretcheddyke



Series: Sloshed Saturday [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, flirty yaz, gay panic!13, it's just fucking cute, sloshie, very brazen drunken flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wretcheddyke/pseuds/wretcheddyke
Summary: who better to call when your sister gets you drunk than an ancient alien with a time machine (who you really really fancy)
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: Sloshed Saturday [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810105
Comments: 26
Kudos: 103
Collections: Sloshed Saturday





	Tarmac

Tarmac looks like space in greyscale. Weaving ripples and purls swirling together in un-trackable patterns. _Is the floor moving or am I? Oh, that’s not good._ The ringer on Yaz's phone cuts through her stupor, a knife at the muffled buzzing in her ears — she lifts a heavy head.

“Yaz? Everythin’ OK?”

“Hiiiiii, Doctor,” she slurs. _Oh god, that sounds bad._ “How’re you?!” She hears herself ask it like a drunk straight girl at a hen do. _Gross_.

“Um—fine,” she replies, voice laced with confusion, “I’ve got three missed calls from you—sorry about that, bit busy here, trying to defuse a radiation mine—y'sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m great, Doctor!” She looks at the cone of chips sat on the wall next to her. “I’ve even got chips!”

“Yaz, are you drunk?” Even through the speaker, Yaz can hear the amusement in her voice. It’s infectious and she feels herself smiling despite herself.

“Nooo. I don’t drink, me. Well, Sonya wanted to do drinks but I think it were just a trick for me to drive her int’ town ‘cos she left me here,” she laughs.

“Well, that’s not very nice. Not ‘till after a few rounds though, ay?”

“I may’ve had a few,” she concedes. Just then, the familiar warping sound of her favourite blue box fills the street outside the chippy. Yaz will never get sick of the sight. _Her ghost monument._ The apparition materialises with a slight breeze, rustling the wet October leaves. “Thought you were defusing a bomb?” Yaz smiles, wet and hazy, at the woman now stood in the doorway. Her voice echoes through the speaker now just a few feet away.

“Hm. If only I had a time machine,” she grins back and hangs up the phone. “C’mon, you.”

The five steps it takes from the safety of the wall to the TARDIS are risky, to say the least. She lurches a bit when she reaches the doorway and the Doctor grabs her arm to stop her tumbling. “Whoops—y’okay?”

“Am now you’re here,” she says, all toying and sugary. The way the Doctor blinks for a second makes it clear she’s gotten to her — Yaz can’t help the accomplished beam on her face.

“Is that so?” She gives a bemused look as she clicks the door shut behind Yaz's head. “C’mon,” she wraps an arm around Yaz's waist and pulls her hand around her neck, taking some of her weight and tucking her flush against her side.

“Alright, handsy. Only had to ask y’know,” Yaz gives an over-emphasised wink, too goofy to be taken seriously.

“Wanna walk y’self?” The Doctor gives a daring smile, holding eye contact.

“…No. Quite like your hands on me,” she absentmindedly licks her lips and is pretty sure it makes the Doctor blush but she looks ahead before Yaz can see.

She gives a mock-laugh and pulls on her arm, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Walking feels more like falling from one foot to the next and when they reach the third door on the right, she’s quite unceremoniously chucked on to a bed, just managing to keep herself upright. “Hmmf. Not very gentle, are you?” She mockingly scolds.

“Didn’t strike me as the type who’d want me to be,” the Doctor grins. _Is that a smirk?_

“Are you flirting with me?” Yaz can hear how drawled her words are— _probably shouldn’t ask that_ —as the woman kneels to untie her shoes.

“I’d never flirt with y’drunk, Yaz. I’m a gentleman,” she says. Her nimble fingers make quick work of her shoelaces and although her tone’s serious there’s still a smile playing at her mouth.

“Pfft. Not anymore you’re not.” The suggestion rests heavily in the air when and Doctor glances up to shoot her a gentle warning look that says, _we’re not going there._ “But you would with me sober then? Flirt?”

“Sober up and we’ll find out,” she chucks the damp shoes to one side and raises one cocky eyebrow.

The comment takes Yaz off guard, to say the least, and her face breaks into one of shocked glee. A tension between them seems to have evolved ever since Ryan and Graham left the TARDIS. Slowly brewing over lingering glances and coy touches — but they’ve never acknowledged it verbally before. “When did you become a smooth talker?!”

“When did you become such a blatant flirt?” The Doctor shoots right back.

“Ermm, ‘bout forty-five minutes ago when I had me fifth Pimm’s.” The abrupt honesty has them both laughing. “I think it were five, lost count after three. Did y’know they put plums in there?” She’d usually be dead embarrassed being this incapacitated but the Doctor makes her feel normal and funny and free. “Sorry…” she says as the Doctor reaches for her jacket, “I’m a bit wet.”

If the Doctor wasn’t blushing before, she definitely is now. She shakes her head at the smutty innuendo, closing her eyes for a second to collect herself. “Not very smart, waitin’ in the rain,” she slides the jacket down Yaz’s arms, pulling one floppy hand out the sleeve and then the other.

“Was waitin’ for my _Nicholas Sparks_ movie moment, wasn’t I?” Yaz knows nothing is going to happen, not while she’s like this, but her heart still races when the Doctor starts to unbuckle her belt. She tilts her chin up so she’s looking the Doctor right in her face, “y’gonna sweep me off m’feet, Doctor?” She grins.

The Doctor’s eyes flicker to her lips for a millisecond and it sends butterflies to Yaz's stomach. “Maybe in the morning,” she teases, “go on, into bed.”

“Don’t ‘ave to tell that to me twice.”

“Y’really are unrelenting, aren’t you?” The Doctor pulls Yaz up by her forearms.

A little bubble of laughter springs from her throat at the Doctor’s question. “Your fault,” she sighs as she slumps into bed still dressed, “being all… you.”

Even through her smile, there’s a little flash of something serious in the Doctor’s eyes when she hears that. She brushes a few damp strands of hair away from Yaz's forehead, “night, Yaz,” and then flicks off the bedside lamp.

“Stay a bit?” Yaz links her fingers through the Doctor’s as she turns to leave. “I’ll be good,” she adds with a smile before she can protest.

The Doctor lays down above the covers next to Yaz and rolls over to look at her. They lay like that for a while, studying each other faces and Yaz makes note of the shape of her mouth and the mole on her cheek and tries really really hard not to forget.

“I see space in the tarmac ‘cos of you,” Yaz whispers in the dark and it feels like a confession. Feels like asking for absolution. Feels like saying I love you. For once, the Doctor doesn’t say anything back—just watches her with a calmness she’d never associate with the Doctor—and Yaz starts to worry she actually said _I love you_ by accident. “…Y’think I’ll be embarrassed tomorrow?”

“Probably. You humans always are,” she smiles, “…you shouldn’t be.”

The quietness to her voice is so unfamiliar. This is the Doctor she’s been seeking for months. The calm, honest Doctor — stripped of her bluster and bravado. She chews on her lip, tries hard to hold back the next words that slip out, tumbling and breathless, “I really wanna kiss you.” It feels so surreal having her here, inches from her face yet miles away. She wonders if she’ll ever really get as close as she’d like.

“I know.” The Doctor lifts a hand the wipe away a tear from the side of Yaz's nose— _when did I start crying?_ —but her soft smile doesn’t falter. “I see braids in crowds ‘cos of you,” she whispers back.

Yaz laughs like she’s heard a joke, a proper belly laugh. _That’s ridiculous._

“Why you laughin’?” She asks, a twinge of insecurity in her confused smile.

“Space versus braids. M’sorry that’s all I can give you.” Yaz attempts a gentle brush of blonde hair but her impaired motor function makes it a little sloppy and she cringes when it turns into a gentle slap.

“Already got space. Never had braids before.”

That sends a pang through her chest. _How does she always say the right thing?_

They’re so close. _So almost there._

Hazel eyes catch the last remaining light from the doorway, illuminating her irises like planets on fire. Pink lips carry the remains of her words, happiness dancing at the corners, and long fingers rest atop the sheet between them. _Am I moving closer or is she?_

She can see the Doctor’s chest rise and fall. Can feel her breath tickling her face. _I’m gonna kiss her._ Her heart thrums in her chest, knocking on the walls of her ribs like a wild animal held captive.

There’s a hand on her chest— _hm, wrong kinda touch—_ gently pushing her back. “Five Pimm's, Yaz,” is whispered against her mouth.

_Stupid. Stupid fucking idiot. Who drinks five fucking Pimm's?!_ She lets out a long, pitiful sigh as she slumps away from the Doctor, adding a grumble on the end for special effect.

“Your fault,” the Doctor laughs, “bein’ such a lightweight.”

“Shut up, I’m Muslim,” Yaz stares up at the ceiling in a strop, trying her best to forget the details of trying to _kiss_ the Doctor and being rejected. _Definitely gonna be embarrassed tomorrow._

“Pfft, yeah and five foot four.” The insult drags her from her self reflection.

“I—” Yaz rolls back over to attempt a forceful shove on her shoulder. “Y’can’t come at me for bein’ short, I’m only one inch shorter than you!”

“One inch makes all the difference.”

“Well, you’d know,” she cocks a suggestive eyebrow and glances down to her crotch. A fizz of laughter erupts from her mouth when the Doctor’s jaw swings open.

“I thought y’were gonna be good?” She pulls a mock-serious face and points accusingly.

“Y’gonna punish me?” Even she realises that one was a bit much and puts a hand across her mouth when the Doctor covers her eyes with her fingers and shakes her head again.

“Yasmin Khan, you’re trouble,” she smiles through the slight blush on her cheeks.

“Heard the same about you,” she knows she’s drunk but laughing like this with the Doctor is a whole other kind of intoxicating, “maybe we’re a match.”

When the Doctor takes a long defeated sigh and licks her lips she doesn’t expect her to say, “Yeah, maybe we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> LOOOOOOOOK i really tried to keep it pg. at least its fluffy (?!)


End file.
